House of Love & Pain
by RaeAnne
Summary: I’m tired of things that are distressing, that are emotional I’m tired of dramatic, so is our Doctor, he wants a break, he wants to play poker, won’t you join him? ..HCam implied but not romance centric. HouseWilson friendship.. OneShot


**TITLE:** House of Love & Pain  
**AUTHOR:** RaeAnne  
**RATING: PG** (I suppose really it should carry PG-13 because of some language but it's brief so I'll leave it)

**DISCLAIMER:** House and characters aren't mine, I'm just barrowing—sharing is a good thing don't you know…though if I had had House, I wouldn't share…but I'm just greedy that way :-)

**A/N: **Are you guys tired of looking at me yet? I don't know what's come over me, I'm like in a writing frenzy…but anyway this is a super short one shot that I originally started writing because I'm going through a Paul McCartney phase which includes a near continual playing of his album Flowers In the Dirt which features a duet with one of my absolute all time favorites Elvis Costello, called You Want Her Too. This song is enormously fantastic, one of my now all time favorites and it's in my humble opinion, a wonderful expression of the conflict created by House and Wilson both having feelings for Cameron (I know never really expressed on the show, but I come to this conclusion from reading between the lies…I mean lines LOL).

I'm seriously losing my chain of thought…anyway that song started the idea for this but once I had the title and actually started writing it, it doesn't at all fit the song… (why did I tell you all this…? I haven't a clue). This story is really an outlet for me because frankly I needed a break from writing all the heavy, emotion riddled stories I am working on at the moment (though not all posted), they number four and are long dramatic stories. This story is supposed to be fun, not serious, not necessarily in character and the time line is not at all kosher. This isn't the poker game from **House vs. God,** I just nabbed the idea and the names of the players. So now frankly I'll shut up before you all pummel me with fruit… enjoyed reading and lots and lots of love, RA

**House of Love & Pain**

_The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you've got it made.  
Groucho Marx_

Poker night, it was hallowed ground, it was the one night in the month that Greg House actually let his guard down—well let it down as much as he ever did. You see Greg House isn't your average man, no, he is a doctor—but even at that he isn't your average doctor either, but really we're getting off point. The point is that for our other than ordinary Doctor, poker night is meaningful.

He hosts his poker night on the third Thursday of every month, in his home located at 221B Menteur Street, Plainsboro Township, New Jersey. If you were ever in need of finding his house, it features as a main landmark a slightly scuffed Honda racing motorcycle out front—it has a cane holder, an unusual feature to match our unusual doctor.

The guests at our doctor's party of cards are just arriving. There will four excluding our doctor but including The Dry Cleaner, The Tax Accountant and in the remaining two positions the itinerant player of Guy at Bus Stop (his alternate being Man At Cross Walk) and Wilson (he was the alternate, actually he's never been to a game before, but the player normally in this spot, Bomb Squad Trainee Guy was unable to attend, but I digress).

So you noticed Wilson? Yes, he has a full, real name that doesn't sound like a rejected mobster. In fact Wilson has several names and like _our _doctor this man is a physician as well. Dr. James E Wilson is a friend of our doctor, works with him too. He is the last to arrive.

Admittance to our doctor's poker night is limited and highly guarded; though looking at the guest list it wouldn't seem so. Our other doctor has been trying to infiltrate for years, this is his first, and he is most excited.

Our doctor doesn't greet his guests but the door is unlocked, he thinks this a generous gesture. Tax Accountant is first, he puts his mandatory bequest of a bottle of premium single malt Scottish scotch, this our doctor hides—this he will not share. The Accountant takes his unusual chair across from our doctor, there is no salutation, such is not the way of this group, they merely nod, they know why they're here, no need to converse.

Next is Guy at Bus Stop, his grift being imported (illegally, but really, I am getting off point) cigars of the Havana variety. These too are secreted away for the soul consumption of our doctor. The ritual of seating is replicated leaving the other vacant chairs for our other doctor and Dry Cleaner.

Dry Cleaner arrives and lays his gift of Legend of Zelda for the Game Boy advanced, as our doctor does not have this game, he find the gifts acceptable and allows Dry Cleaner to take his chair, even though he is tempted to turn him away, the gift is not typical—he expects more.

Dr. Wilson arrives in his plain brown several year old sedan, he parks on the road exits and loads his arms with what he believes to be standard poker game fare—never mind he hasn't been to a poker game since college. He has chips, and dip, domestic beer, pretzels and bags of tootsie rolls.

Dr. Wilson struggles but makes it to our doctor's front door and upon remembering his directive struggles to turn the handle. He finds it locked. He kicks it with his leather loafer which he hasn't bothered to change from work. He can hear muffled grumbles from our doctor and curses of the same origins.

It takes a bit too long but the door finally opens. "What in the hell did you bring Wilson?" our doctor in unbelief cries.

"I brought snacks—but obviously they are unwelcome." Wilson enters finding the living room smoky dim and smelling like what he always imagined a Humphrey Bogart movie must smell like.

"Hey, where's his price?" Dry Cleaner is obviously miffed; perhaps a better term would be peeved.

"I'm sorry?" Wilson carefully hung his jacket on the dusty coat hook that was currently holding everything but coats.

"Your mandatory gift to Laird House in the form of Scotch—premium, or cigars—imported, or any gift carrying a resale value of $200 or more…!"

Wilson turned to our doctor horrified. "You make them give you gifts?! Call you Lord?!"

"What? No, they simply show their appreciation of my supplying them a safe venue to spend their money and they don't call me Lord, that would be vain and lord knows I'm not vain—they call me Laird, you know L-a-i-r-d, it's a name—my name, Laird G House…and you call yourself my friend!" our doctor rolled his eyes in delicious sarcasm.

"Laird is Scottish for Lord, you know that, you're of Scottish decent and Laird is not your name!"

"Shut up you ninny, seriously, you think we go by our real names here?" our doctor hit Wilson in the back of the head then with a hand gesture directed him to sit.

"Then why are you calling me Wilson? Why don't I have a name?" Wilson took his chair off to the left of our doctor.

"I nominate that we call him Girly Man…" Tax Accountant says. He is jealous man who is quick to beat down any one he thought a threat to take his position in the poker night pack.

"I was thinking Albino Dorkaramus…" Dry Cleaner countered, also fearing his coveted spot which was sought after most wantonly by Crossing Guard 2 at Lex and Luther, also by Morning Coffee Barista…

Wilson looked horrified at the meaty blood thirsty look these three had in their eyes, even if Guy at Bus Stop was silently giving the look.

"No, this is my game, I give the names—he shall be called…" our doctor pauses, mostly for dramatic effect which worked quite well, his minions were on the edge of their chairs waiting, "Watson—for he's elementary."

"What?" Wilson was dubious.

"Watson, hey take the name or you're out, Laird has spoken!" Guy at Bus Stop finally spoke up, and with very emphatic devotion.

Wilson blinked mouth falling open, it was like another dimension, this wasn't sane.

"Alright gentleman, the game is standard 5-card stud…" our doctor started the game and for all the low-key ceremony of the entrances the start of the actual game is rather unspectacular.

The game plays on as usual poker games do. There were antes, blinds, big blinds, lowballs, calls, ammunition, dogs, donkeys, double gut shots, aces high and aces low. There were big wins and a few bluffs gone bad.

It was standard fare for, as our doctor liked to call it, 'Dr. Laird's House of Love and Pain' for sometimes the cards loved you but most times they just gave pain. Things did start getting interesting towards what would have normally been the end of the night for our doctor. He was in a last stand battle with our Watson, Dry Cleaner had bowed out an hour before, his wife called said be better get home, Guy at the Bus Stop went broke and was going to miss his ride if he didn't hurry, the last stop of the night was at 11:30. Tax Accountant had held out till the hand right before this one, he now sat an enthralled spectator.

"Come Watson, I read you like damn comic strip, you don't have anything…" our doctor bated.

"If that were so _Laird_ you wouldn't be trying so hard to rile me, leading me to the conclusion that it is in fact you, who has nothing and are trying to get me nervous so I will fold in anticipation of your supposedly stupendous hand…" Watson didn't bat an eye.

"Or perhaps you haven't read the situation correctly at all. You perhaps didn't take into account that I am crafty, that I would deceptively bate you so that you would think that I thought I could rile you into folding all the while knowing your reaction would be the opposite, that you would come to the conclusion that I was doing it because I myself didn't have a good hand, when in fact I did but wanted you think that I didn't and was using my wondrously fantastic wit and power of persuasion to get all the money from you that I possibly can while still winning in the final round…" our doctor remained stone faced.

"Perhaps." Watson remained equally stoned faced and blank.

"You don't think so?" our doctor's eyebrow couldn't help but cock.

"I don't know…what do you think I think…because there is a good chance that I could think the opposite, or well it could be the same, but then again I could be telling you this because I want you to think that I am thinking the opposite of what I am really thinking so as to not let on that I am actually thinking what you think I'm thinking… You think?"

Our doctor pondered this, "Perhaps."

"Raise," Watson tossed in the remaining of his chips.

Our doctor was already 'all-in'. There came an impasse and our doctors stared each other down.

"So, what have you left to toss in the pot?" Watson grinned.

"So cocksure aren't you my little friend…" our doctor pondered this surveying the pot, it amounted to about or a little over two thousand dollars. "I'll raise," our doctor flashed a hint of a wicked grin.

Watson's eyebrows shot up. "What have you got?"

"A '65 Corvette," our doctor pulled keys from the pocket of his jeans tossing them on the table.

"How very Daniel Craig of you," Watson frowned.

"What can I say…besides, House, Laird House."

"Can you stop with that? Seriously, that is annoying, your name is Greg."

"Hey, if you're disputing my Laird status, go talk to Cameron, she compared me to God—so it's not like I'm going 'call me Jehovah' or something."

"Speaking of Cameron—I call," Watson reached into the pocket of his jeans but what he retrieved was not keys.

"Those are Monster Truck tickets…" our doctor looked at them suspiciously. "While a nice thought, they don't match a classic Vett."

"Maybe not, but I think the date that goes along with them does."

"They come with an escort? Kinky but I don't know where you get yours but mine come on the cheap…"

"She's not an escort, she's your duckling." Watson face is totaling smug, he didn't try and mask it.

"Pardon me?" our doctor demands, though there is no pardon in his voice.

"Cameron, or does she have a special name too?"

"Yeah, she's called Mine."

"I believe it's my turned to beg pardon…"

"You damn well heard me Wilson—"

"It's Watson remember."

"You're taking Cameron to monster trucks?" our doctor clearly forgot the game, he was livid—he territorial.

"I am and it appears in your car," Watson looked down at the pot with clear cocky pleasure.

"Like hell!" our doctor yelled.

Poor Tax Accountant watched not sure if he should be terrified or entertained, it was somewhere in the middle.

"Show me what you got…" Watson lifted his chin in challenge.

"Show me yours first," our doctor was still showing barely constrained rage.

"Same time then?" Watson was ever so diplomatic.

"Fine."

Our doctor and Watson laid down their cards.

"Full House, kings over nines," our doctor said of Watson's hand.

"Royal Flush…" Watson groaned over our doctors.

"Like I said…it all comes down to perhaps…" our doctor grinned.

"Why were going off the handle then? You have the unbeatable hand…the hand that only comes along once in a fucking blue moon and you're going off because I am—was, taking Cameron to the Monster Truck Rally?" it was Watson's turn to lose his cool.

"It was never about the cards Watson, you should know that—it's about duckling 3, it's about what's mine…" our doctor smiled.

"Like you ever gave a crap before."

"You didn't either—I do believe there is a lesson in there about pots, and name calling and the color black…but what do I know…"

"Don't give me that, you know I've been interested in her since you hired her!"

"Then why did you encourage me to take her out when she quit? Damn, you pushed me to date her, gave me tips—why would you do that if you wanted her yourself?"

"You need her, I just love her."

"Oh, how sentimental!" our doctor scoffed.

"You asked, I answered."

"You don't love her! Want her? Sure I'll believe that, love to make her wife number 72 I'm sure…but you don't love her, you don't get to play that card."

"What? Is it that hard to believe that just because you don't see how warm, caring and amazing she is that no other man does—that _I _don't? She's amazing…truly amazing and you don't see it…"

"Hey, this isn't about what I see or don't see, this is matter of 'mine', didn't I just explain that to you?"

"She's isn't some Tonka truck House, she's not a toy that you get to hog, she's a person, she's special."

"And you're Special Ed, if you think that I give a crap about your little speeches and soap box plea for equality!"

"You don't even like her House remember? I don't understand why you're taking it like this…"

"Damn you are stupid. SHE IS MINE, it isn't a matter of taking it any which way or me liking or not liking her. Have you taken her out?"

"Just once or twice…"

"Is it once or is it twice, if she is as special as you try and make her out to be you would remember, one would think."

"Once officially, twice if you count when we met for coffee."

"You're done; you don't see her again—period."

"I'm sorry, you may call yourself Laird, but last time I checked this was American, we don't have lords."

"Don't push me Wilson."

"Or what? You'll beat me with your cane?"

"Tax Accountant," our doctor turns to address the gawking, wide eyed terrified man.

"Yes…?" Tax Accountant stuttered.

"Call your buddies up at the IRS, tell them James E Wilson, has been filing fraudulent tax returns for the last five years…or whatever wonderfully devious thing you can think of that will freeze and/or throw dear Watson in jail for the next 10-15 years okay?"

"You asshole!" Watson cried incredulous, he had no doubt that our dear doctor would order such a thing and after tonight, no doubts that Tax Accountant would follow through.

"Yes…yes sir…but may I go now?"

"Go."

Tax Accountant wastes no time scooping his parka and keys from his chair and fleeing the apartment like there were demons at his heels.

"You better call him off—!" Watson gestured at the slamming door.

"I'd love to; I'll call off Tax Accountant if you stay away from Cameron."

"Evan if I say I will it would be a little difficult seeing as how we work at the same hospital!"

"I didn't ask for details, I asked for results!"

"Take it back." Watson folded his arms.

"Take what back?" our doctor glared.

"That you don't like her."

"Why?"

"Because I know good and well that you want her and I am willing to let you have her if you come clean about it," Watson shrugged as if what he offered was the sanest thing in the world.

"I'm sorry come again? I didn't realize you were under the impression that this was negotiation, because let me set you straight, it's not. Besides, it's not your call, you don't get to choose what I have—hell you don't get to choose what she gives!"

"Aw, see now you're getting it, not any one person can be _laird _over all, not even you Laird House."

"Didn't you get the memo, Cuddy sent it out last week, I always get what I want."

"Keep it up and you won't get her."

"Who said I wanted Cameron?"

"You didn't have to."

"If you really loved her, you wouldn't just let her go."

"You see that is where you are very, very wrong, if I truly loved her that is exactly what I would do because I know that she wants you—not me."

"That's cause you're a wuss, if you love something you should take it, fight for it—not give it away—that's just stupid…I bet you never had any toys in sandbox did you, let other kids take them?"

"You should remember, you cried to my mom that I wouldn't let you play with Speed Racer model car that I got for my birthday the day before so she made me share and it went home with you!"

"Wow, you know how to carry a grudge…but I think that just kind of proves my point about the whole, don't let what you want go thing…"

"That's beside the point—Cameron isn't a model car, she's a person, she's a woman who loves you and I know that you love her too so I'm telling you don't mess this up, take her!"

"You just went too heavy for me man…you want a beer? I need a beer…" our doctor awkwardly limped (well to us the limp looks awkward, but really it's anything but) to the kitchen bringing back two bottles of the light beer he didn't care for but Watson brought.

"I'm serious House…" Watson stood even as our doctor sunk to his leather couch.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever—until I go to sleep it's still Thursday despite the fact the clock says 1:22 am on Friday, it's Thursday and still poker night…and on poker night I'm Laird House and I don't do heavy, so if you intend to stay you can be Watson and we'll watch This Old House, but you talk about heavy and you're out of here—got it?"

Watson looked at our doctor with a deep sigh, "Yeah I got it Laird House…give me that beer…and get the scotch out I saw you shove under the couch when I came in…"

-------------------)(-------------------

_Love is an exploding cigar we willingly smoke.  
Lynda Barry_

It's a month later, poker night yet again. But instead of four men sitting down in a smoky living room with our curmudgeon doctor they are all standing outside of the door that is normally unlocked but tonight is fastened tight.

"It is Thursday right?" Dry Cleaner turns to Guy at Bus Stop.

"Yep…" Guy at Bus Stop affirms.

"Try the door again…Laird has never locked us out…" Tax Accountant mumbles almost too beside himself with grief to speak.

"Wait, I think there is a note…is that paper there?" Watson standing behind the three huddled in a semi-circle around the front door so tight he can't even see a way to get close enough to look.

"Yes, yes I do think it is!" Dry Cleaner exclaims.

As he does the three go down on it like brides at a 99 dollar wedding dress sale—Watson notes this because, well he's had three wives, he's played interference at these sales and knows all too well what they look like.

"Give it to me! I was here before both of you!" Tax Account moves for it.

"So? Laird likes me best…" Dry Cleaner countered.

"Can either of you read it…because I can't…" Guy at Bus Stop held the note bewildered by the illegible scrawl.

"Give it to me, its doctor speak…" Watson mutters hand out stretched for the note.

"Attendees of Dr. Laird's House of Love & Pain Gambling Hell be advised that this month's game has been rescheduled for Thursday next. Leave your gifts for tonight's game with Watson …but I will still be expecting token gifts next week, make note.

Signed,  
Laird House" Watson stopped reading when the postscript was addressed solely to him which simply requested that he use the key he had and take in the gifts.

If I had words enough to describe how crestfallen our three players looked I would, but since I don't, I can't. Their poor little heads hung and their lips quivered, they gave their gifts of devotion to Watson and drug their feet as they headed away.

Watson wanted to be shocked at the pitiful men but after last month he just wasn't. He accepted their gifts but waited for them to completely vacate before extracting his key to our doctor's home.

He let himself in intending on leaving the ill gotten grift on the coffee table and heading back out the door but upon entering he found a box on the coffee table wrapped haphazardly in year old newspapers he was sure out doctor had laying around. Watson found his name scrawled with black ink on top.

So curious is our Watson that he dumps our doctors' gifts on the chair, sits on the couch and tears open the box.

It was a model of Speed Racer's car…just like the one he had gotten for sixth birthday. He laughed out loud. Attached to the replica of the white Mach 5 emblazoned with the big red M with Speed in the driver's seat was yet another note.

"Here, because you are a big baby, but know that accepting this constitutes a contract which states that upon taking this toy home you are accepting it as replacement for any and all (or future) interest in one A. Cameron. You get your damn toy back and you leave my girl alone…got it?"

Watson, or I suppose it is Wilson because tonight's poker night has been postponed, laughs at our doctor, it's rather insane he thinks.

He takes the toy, now a prized collector's item and locks our doctor's door behind him. He accepts the terms our doctor has stated, he had never held any allusions that he would actually in the end get the girl, the sidekick never did. But while he truly did care deeply, did probably actually love her (he of course only said it to our doctor only to rile him) he knew, as he told our doctor, that she didn't love him and that was okay. Wilson did however know that our doctor needed and though he'd lie, cared about her—probably loved her and Cameron for her part truly saw something in our doctor that very few did or could.

So all in all Wilson left satisfied, he got his Mach 5, he got some really good scotch and the cigars were first class… What you actually thought he'd leave them there? Our doctor didn't either hence the reason he requested gifts for next week.

The night that would have been poker nights ends for our dear Wilson in his empty apartment, he smokes our doctor's cigars and drinks our doctor's scotch, he breathes evenly and finds himself content. So what if love was fickle, fleeting and damn entrapping…it was worth it while it lasted…much like his Cuban cigar he thinks with a grin.

_A/N: One more I swear…okay, remember when I said the story line wasn't kosher? Well, see the reason I did that is because I pretty much went 'ctrl, alt, delete' on the Monster Trucks from season one and 'copy, paste' it here, same idea—but different LOL. Did this story make any sense at all? If it didn't I apologize, I was in a weird mood when I wrote it :-) Thanks for reading!!! RA_


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